


My Own Personalized Hell

by Karamelkat2141



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Child Murder, Concept of Hell, Death, Depression, Drug Use, Drugs, Eternity in Damnation, Forced to Face the Truth, Funeral, Gen, Harassment, Hell, Ignored, Murder, My Funeral, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Pain, Party, Recreational Drug Use, Ruined Dreams, Sex, Smoking, What is Hell, high, invisible, life - Freeform, perspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 08:19:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3761266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karamelkat2141/pseuds/Karamelkat2141
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Once you die, hell is meeting the person you could have been. ~The_Pecking_Order</p><p>COMPLETED</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Own Personalized Hell

Looking back, I realize I probably shouldn’t’ve shot up after four cups of that amber liquid. At the time, I just thought, “What the hell?” I figured a buzz wasn’t rewarding enough after killing her. Who would’ve thought that such a little human would have so much blood? Well, in all actuality, a child only holds about two and a half liters of that red, rust smelling fluid. But _oh..._ The way it oozed, dripped, flowed down her neck as I held her frail body in my arms made it seem as though she held 50. The only thing I regret in all this was her father. He put up such a fight.

Some may say that I’m damned to Hell. That this act alone condemns me to the place “down below”. But does it really? I mean, I didn’t do it just to do it.

I did it to save her. To save her from an oppressive world where its own people live under constant scrutiny. There is no such thing as freedom, liberation, individualism, happiness, or even honesty. I saved her from the inevitable burden of pain that begins with the onset of adolescence. The time where one’s mind is so very impressionable and where self-discovery starts. Adolescence is a horrid few years.

Attempting to drive while my mind was blurred on the edge of euphoria probably wasn’t a good idea. It’s no surprise I tipped my Softail ’99 over just a little too far, hard metal skidding across the pot-holed asphalt. Burned rubber smells horrible. It really does. I should have just stopped when it took a good five minutes to jam my bloody keys into ignition, but nope! I was high, drunk, and having the best damn time of my life. Well, I say that...

Death is not fun. Watching your family mourn over your mangled body. The funeral was depressing as hell. All the tears spilt, but certainly not in my name. My family knew what I did and how I got my kicks. I guess it just kind of makes me feel guilty for putting them in that position in front of their son’s polished casket. Sure, they’ll hurt, but my elder brother will more than make up for their supposed loss. He’s an A-level scholar in university with his entire future planned out on a list. That’s more his OCD than anything, but still. He even has a girlfriend.

I can’t really expect my schoolmates to be anything but judgmental along with their gossiping parents and teachers. It’s what they do – what they’re supposed to do, right? Then there were my so called friends who acted remorseful, but forgot me as soon as the next movie rolled around. I thought the loss of my life would be a little more significant than a trend. My mistake.

Well now I’m here, in this completely gray expansion. It has four simple walls, a ceiling, and a floor identical in every aspect. No wooden trimming, no glass windows, no fuzzy carpet, and none of that annoying popcorn on the ceiling. The only difference is that on the wall to my left is a door. Same with the right. Two identical sister doors. Their only accessory being a plain nickel pull handle sticking out perpendicular to the door and mapping a rectangular outline.

Simply standing here is making me a little antsy, to tell the truth, so I guess it wouldn’t hurt to go see what’s on the other side of the door. Walking over to the door on my left, I yank it open. Nothing grabs my attention. The expansion before me is as boring as the little room, simply a darker shade of gray with some bare steps leading downwards to another room. Of course it leads to another room; I’d bet it’s identical to the one I’m standing in now. I huff out a breath, closing the door and trudging over to the one on the right.

The door was surprisingly light compared to its sister. Once opened, it revealed another gray expanse. However, the gray was a lighter shade and the stairs seemed to lead upwards to a room locked with a golden padlock on its door handle. I cast a cursory glance around the expanse for a key, pursing my lips as one wasn’t to be found. I backed up after that, pushing the door to ensure it stayed wide open and sat down, my feet dangling onto the first step.

Three options were available thus far. Well, okay, maybe only one, but it wouldn't hurt to sit and recount. Obviously I can’t go right because there’s a bloody padlock on the door, so unless I wait around for someone to open it – which I highly doubt will be any time soon - it’s not an option. In addition, I’m not gonna sit and wait for something to happen, so that leaves going left. I mean, I can’t stay here forever. It’s only been but a few moments and I’m already terrifically bored. Dangling feet can be boring, believe it or not. Oh well. I’m just gonna have to deal, I guess.

For no good reason, after standing back up and shutting the door, I brushed myself off. Like I had some sort of dirt stuck to my clothing. I mean seriously, the place is immaculate; I could eat an entire meal off the floor and not trouble about bugs or getting sick. Anyways, I head over to the door to the left and tug open the door, but for some reason, it seems to have gotten heavier. I close the door and descend down the stairs, pausing before opening the door in front of me. I say open, but it was more taking a moment to create a stance and heaving it ajar – swear the bloody door was made of lead. It felt at least a foot thick, but after looking, it turned out to be only an inch and a half wide. I’m not exactly the most muscular, but I’m toned and have height on my side, so this whole heaving predicament is new.

Before stepping in, I take a moment to look. Unfortunately I can't see anything because it is pitch dark, except for the light reflecting from behind me. Nothing is there that I can see. I step forward, and all of a sudden darkness falls. I can't even see my fingers in front of my face. It's pretty eerie because I remember those horror films where the actor or actress would be standing in a room and then the point of view would change to where the audience was the actor, and then the theme from _Jaws_ would crescendo from the speakers in the theatre. Then, out of the blue, a monster would jump out and scare the living daylights out of the audience. I now have the fortune of finding myself in that position. Who knew what was gonna happen? Not me. . .

The door must’ve closed or something, so I just stood there as my eyes began to register a gradual lighting change. It was pretty odd because it was like there was a spotlight only on me. It didn’t hurt my eyes, and it didn’t bounce off the walls, so it looked like I was standing in the spotlight on a blacked-out stage without the audience and red velvet curtains. Then something else happened. In front of me, a mirror appeared. One moment I was looking ahead into the darkness, then I turned to look behind me, and when I looked back, it was just – there. It was about a foot taller than me, same with the width. I saw myself staring back, and I looked down at what I was wearing. I hadn’t noticed it before, but I was wearing what I had on the night I killed myself, her blood still splattered in little amusing patterns. I tilted my head and looked back at my reflection. It was mirroring my movements like it was me, but the reflection was now a younger version of me – floppy brown hair, striped blue and yellow shirt, and khaki cargos. Oddly, I distinctly remember the moment I was wearing the outfit. Which is odd because I wore that outfit more than fourteen years ago. If you had asked me about it, I wouldn’t’ve any clue what you were talking about, but now, the memory’s vivid as ever. This is just strange.

“Hello?” It probably doesn’t help to call out, but hey, gotta check if anyone’s here, right? “Is anyone there?”

All of a sudden, the little boy, -me, I guess – started to move as a background began appearing up on the mirror, like focusing the blur out of a photo. I watched, bewildered, as I recounted exactly what was going to happen next, following the scene like it was a movie I had seen too many times.

I was four, and my mom, brother, and I had just driven to the park to meet my dad. I was ecstatic as I’ll get out. Normally my brother - his name is Andrew - and I would swing together on the plastic dark green swings, despite him being seven years my senior, and we would make sand castles in the pit. If Andrew was in the mood, sometimes we’d even go down the metal slide that was five times taller than me. But not today. I was wearing my blue and yellow shirt and khaki cargos that mom had laid out for me that morning. My mom, brother, and I started walking towards Dad, the fall leaves crunching under our shoes. Without a word, as we passed the sandpit, Mom dropped me off, and kept walking with Andrew towards Dad.

While I was watching that particular “scene” a huge ache planted itself inside me. This is gonna sound corny, but it was like my heart was aching as I watched Mom and Andrew walk away. It happened eons ago; I should not be feeling this. I shifted to sit down on the floor, but a chair suddenly appeared. Again, gray and austere, just like the former expansions. I dropped onto the chair, clutching and rubbing at my chest, trying my hardest to rub the ache away. But to my horror, the pain only intensified as the scene played out.

As Mother, Father, and Andrew sat at a picnic table casually conversing, I watched as the younger me was left alone in the cold with nobody and nothing to play with except the sand.

The scene finally faded out to black. The mirror disappeared, and then the pain decided to jolt. I have no idea why, or how, but I felt as if I was reliving that exact moment, but this time, the emotions only a thousand times stronger than when I was experiencing the first time. My eyes started to burn as the scene replayed in my head. Typically, I avoid crying at all costs; it’s a sign of weakness – but I broke.

My head was hurting, my chest throbbing as the first tear dropped. Countless emotions raced through me. Why had they left me? Was this a punishment? Did I do something wrong to deserve this? I must have, otherwise it wouldn’t have happened. . . Please, don’t leave me here alone! I felt like a piece of garbage discarded and empty now that my family didn’t want me. I knew my reactions were completely irrational, given that this happened fourteen years ago. Helplessly, I cried out into the void space.

The tears were streaming by now as I continued to clutch onto my bloody shirt, pain racking through my body. I stretched my legs out, and my right hand reached up so that I had something to bite into. I was literally choking on my tears. What the hell was wrong with me?

It felt like a good two hours – I didn’t have a clock to go off, so how was I supposed to know the exact time? – ‘til I was able to stop sobbing. But before I could completely calm down, the mirror appeared again. I just about cried at the sight of it.

This time, I was thirteen, wearing a navy button up and jeans with a black V-neck t-shirt underneath. My first high school party. I watched grimly as I saw myself go through the day.

The scene started off as I was smoking under the stadium where none of the teachers ever supervised. It was lunch break, and earlier a couple school mates asked if I liked to try. From that day on, we hung out together. Anyways, as I was pulling a drag, someone mentioned a party that night and announced everyone in the dubbed “Smoking Corner” was invited. My new mates said they were going, so I decided I would too. After school, even though it was an hour before the party started, I showered and got dressed in my best distressed black jeans and new red band t-shirt. I sat on my windowsill and proceeded to smoke, blowing puffs out the window, lighting the next with the previous until the sun had set. The universal cue the night had officially begun. I quickly jammed the packet into my pocket and jumped on my motorcycle to set off. I didn’t have to worry about being caught. Andrew was taking my parents on a tour of the prestigious new college he had been accepted to and would be gone the next two days.

I had no idea what to expect. I had seen stuff on movies of course, and how drinking always made things enjoyable. If you could get a one night stand in, even better. I said yes to every beverage handed my way, and at some point I even followed a pretty girl into a room off a side hallway. This was how it was supposed to be, right? Everything was fine. I eventually got to the point where I could hardly stand on my own and couldn’t even zip my fly without my fingers fumbling. I felt pretty lousy and was calling it quits, starting to stumble towards the door.

I watched the mirror in horror, already anticipating what was going to happen as some guys strode towards the younger me in the mirror. They showed me a needle, and I shook my head, at least as much as I could with the buzz I had. I tried mumbling. No, no, no, no. I wanted to be done for the night. But then I felt hands wrap around my waist and wrists. Trying to find them off was a futile challenge, that I obviously had no chance in winning. I winced as the needle punctured my soft skin and then I went limp. I remember feeling like nothing was wrong, that nothing could get to me. The people around me started snickering and murmuring things in my ear. Feels good, doesn’t it?

Looking at the mirror, I now had a different perspective than I did at the party, so I was able to see all the sneers and people muttering to each other that it must’ve been my first. They laughed and left me lying on the floor.

Another wave of pain hit me, this time on the inside of my left elbow. Looking down, nothing was there, but the pain was so very real. Wave, after wave, crashing down on me. Stinging. Burning. Singeing. I could have sworn I was being stabbed right where the needle had punctured my flesh. I screamed, clawing at my skin. I shrieked for the agony to subside, and for a second, it did. I immediately felt as if I was shooting up, tongue hissing as the drug coursed through my veins. I let out a soft moan as the imaginary drug did its job, leaning my head back against the top of the gray chair, but then it came back. The temporary high was gone, replaced with another round of vicious daggers finding a home in my muscle. It felt like someone was holding five hypodermic needles above his head and then plunging it down into a single spot on my arm with as much force as he could muster. The pain becoming too much, I was provoked to screaming and thrashing about, but all my body had to offer was a silent shaking.

I really just needed to rest. I was already worn out from the previous scene, and the tears flowed much slower, but all I could do was sit, letting the pain fester, feeling the agony followed by the high, only to be repeated again and again, silently screaming into oblivion.

I slowly watched in fear as the scene ultimately disappeared, only to be replaced with another. And another. Any memory or event I had ever worked to forget, was back, flashing and blazing. I couldn’t even turn my eyes away. It was watching a horror movie about my life in 5-D, full Technicolor enhanced with sensing. I shouted and screamed, despite my voice being hoarse and my throat being uncomfortably dry. I knew only too well that nothing was coming to save me from my own memories.

My entire life’s pain replayed in front of me, my body wracked with enough distress to make me want to kill myself, only to realize that I’m already dead.

Oh. Oh. This must be my Hell. This must be how I’ll spend the rest of eternity. Every single time I ever felt a twinge of pain thrown back at me without a moment’s rest.

I couldn’t keep track of the never-ending cycle. Lost count of the scenes, almost losing my mind with it. At this point, I just hunched over, raking my fingers across my scalp, hard enough for my nails to draw blood. Grasping at my hair while my legs shook uncontrollably, tremors shaking down, gasping silently.

I watched in despair as once again another version of me took appearance in the mirror. Only this time, it was different. All the former reflections of myself were previous versions of me. They were memories of a younger self. Looking at the reflection, I realized the “me” staring back, was older. He was wearing a navy suit with a crisp white shirt and shoes made of distinct Italian leather. My eyes roamed down the reflection as I looked at how clean and sharp “I” looked. I glanced back down at myself and sank down in the chair a bit after comparing my bloody rag of a shirt and tattered pants to my other tailored self.

“Hello.”

My head snapped up at that one word and saw my tailored self move as if he was talking to me. I don’t know why, I guess to make things less confusing, but I named my older self Holden. Holden stood, hands in his trousers pockets staring at me with sober eyes.

“Have you figured out why you’re here?” Holden’s voice was polished, crisp, and rich. His voice was that of a knowledgeable average American citizen in its calm demeanor, but it bordered on snobby Englishman and sort of grated on my nerves to be quite honest.

It took me a moment to realize he expected an answer. I did my best to compose myself before responding. “It’s my Hell, isn’t it?”

He raised an eyebrow and edged forward. “Yes, if that is what you wish to call it. Your own personalized Hell. Everyone has one.”

I took a moment to run his words through my mind. Everyone has one. Didn’t only bad people go to Hell? The people that commit sins and crimes? And what did he mean, personalized?

Holden, seemingly a damn mind reader, answered accordingly. Little arrogant prick. “Tsk, tsk. That is a common misunderstanding. People like to believe that when a person dies, finally finds peace, bites the dust, goes beyond the veil, etc., the person’s entire soul goes to either what they call Heaven or Hell. They make the mistake of making the soul into a body type figure, seeing it as one whole piece. But that is not how it works.” He paused to look at me before continuing. “A person is neither good nor evil. Have you ever wondered why a person can have the best intentions but hurt someone that was completely innocent? Someone that was completely innocent who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time? I’m sure you have.” That made me sore. I could tell that he knew it too. Bastard. “As I was saying, when a person dies, the whole soul does not go directly to Heaven or Hell, but rather both.”

As I let his words sink in, I became doubly sore. Everything I had ever been told about Hell, a lie. A simple misunderstanding. I shouldn’t’ve been sore, but I was. Nevertheless, I was willing to hear this guy out. I mean, this whole idea of “two souls” was pretty intriguing.

“Why be punished if you’ve done nothing wrong?” Again, he fixed me with his all-knowing look before continuing. I knew he was referencing my first memory of when I first saw the mirror. I shifted my gaze to my feet as he proceeded. “So staying true to that question, the part of the soul that has done unmentionable things go here, in this room that you had to walk down a case of stairs to get to. I’m sure you can connect the dots.”

He waited as I began to sort some things through. Okay, so this was my Hell – got it. This was also downstairs from the first expansion that I landed. So when everyone kept saying things like “down-below” and “downstairs” as a reference to Hell, they meant it – literally. Which means. . .

I popped up. “Wait, so you’re saying that up there,” my index finger pointed upward, “is the ‘good part of my soul’ in its own personalized Heaven?” I made little air quotes around that one part.

“Precisely.” He responded with a smile. “And now this part of your soul will spend eternity in your own Hell.”

That kind of freaked me out a bit. Even so, I couldn’t help but ask, “Will I be dangled over fire and lava with all the other bad soul parts of other people now?” My imagination was running wild.

He glared at me condescendingly, pinching the area between his eyebrows, appearing to be having an onset of a huge migraine. Hey, how was I supposed to know any of this? “People can be so ignorant.” He let out a sigh. “Heaven and Hell are not community places. You will only ever have yourself, unless it is part of your personalized Heaven or Hell to be surrounded by others. But if they are, they don’t register it. For example, even though you are in your own Hell alone with only me, who is of course, yourself, you could be part of that girl’s father’s Hell, watching his daughter being murdered over and over again.” When Holden said that, I was a little unnerved. But I still did the right thing – I saved her.

His previous words just provoked another question. “What will happen when the mirror has run out of memories? I only had so many.” I noted the past tense of my words and accepted it. If eternity is, well, eternal, then eighteen short years isn’t going to cut it.

Holden smirked. “Oh, the memories have already run out.” His voice got noticeably lower like a detective who was about to reveal the murderer of a serial killing. “You just witnessed and felt every memory that ever made you hurt in even the slightest way. Those times are what molded you into the person you were when you died. You have made some terrible mistakes and have stumbled down some wrong paths. I’m sure you have an idea of how you could have been. Looking in the mirror and seeing a terrifying monster; lying in bed thinking, ‘Who would I be if my parents hadn’t abandoned me in that sandpit all those years ago? What kind of person would I be if I would’ve only said no?’ Hell, for you, is me. Say hello to the person you could have been.”

Before I could process or say anything Holden had said, he was gone and the room transformed. I was literally in a box made of mirrors. The four walls, ceiling, and floor were all mirrors. The chair was gone and I was standing in the center watching my multiple refracted reflections stare right back at me. Then it all shifted.

All around me the mirrors turned into movie screens. It reminded me of being in a dream. Being there, in person, but being able to watch yourself from a distance, if that makes any sense. I watched as my mother fed a baby who was no doubt me. I watched as she cuddled him and read him stories at night. The Lion and the Little Red Bird. She kissed him and showed him love, the father following her lead. I sank down on the floor, Indian style, and watched with wide eyes. Man that killed me. My mom never so much as glanced my way with a snarl pressed on her lips. I wonder how this kid – me – would turn out. Probably all fancy-schmancy with proper friends and all. I always wanted good, loyal friends.

I sat and watched, day after day. I was making friends left and right, I had a good position in school, and was dearly loved by my family and friends who would do anything just to be sure I was safe and felt wanted.

After a while of watching and sitting on the floor, I started noticing my “body” didn’t need any tending to. Apparently in Hell, you don’t need to eat or use the toilet. . . Huh, I guess that’s kind of a bonus. I sue that term for lack of better one. I really don’t know what I’d do if I had to pee throughout this whole goddamn production. But then again, my body’s still on Earth. Only my soul is what’s here, so I guess it doesn’t need to relieve itself in a white porcelain tank. Good to know.

After eons of watching, it got to where I was in my early thirties. I watched as I came home from work to a beautiful wife and a baby boy. My heartstrings tugged on that because after entering the whole drug scene, I gave up on that dream. I always wanted a kid. Didn’t really matter if it was a boy or girl, as long as he or she was healthy. This train of thought made my eyes water as I continued to watching my kid grow up and my older self, who was now like the older version of me that I met that I named Holden, hold his boy tight and kiss his wife before tucking him in bed.

I guess some may say that this isn’t Hell. I’m not constantly suffering or being tortured to the brink of “death” only to be brought back again. But with all this thinking, I think I’ve figured it out. Hell isn’t generalized – it’s personalized. Many people imagine the images of Dante’s Inferno as Hell, but you’re already dead, so would it really hurt to be thrown into some lava? You don’t have a body anymore. Hell takes the form of a person’s worst fear and shapes it so it’ll last all eternity. But maybe someone’s fear is physical. Being drowned for example. His or her Hell will most likely being underwater, never able to surface, continuously feeling the pain of asphyxiation under water, but never actually dying. Someone else’s fear may be more mental, kind of like mine: seeing the person I could have been.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I had just finished reading The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger and The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton when I decided to start this work. I loved the style of writing and tried to let it influence the tone. If you have any suggestions, comments, questions, etc, leave a comment below! Leave a kudos if you enjoyed it or made you think, which was the main point of this work. To get people to think. So I hope you're contemplating a few things now, or just enjoy the story. Thanks!


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